


Ode à la Bière

by laeb



Category: Actors RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, Romance, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-21
Updated: 2003-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 14:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23068510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laeb/pseuds/laeb
Summary: Where beer has everything to do with it.
Relationships: Orlando Bloom/Colin Farrell
Comments: 8
Kudos: 1





	1. La Valse à Mille Temps

**Author's Note:**

> My many thanks go to Mormegil for the wonderful beta. I luv ya :)  
To Miss D, cos you completed Daunting Byron so beautifully. Shel, hope you’ll enjoy ;)  
Matt and Paddy: get well, keep tight. I luv ya both too.  
This chapter’s title is provided by Jacques Brel.  
Last but not least: ~Lyrics~ are Jacques Brel’s ‘La Bière’, a tribute to the greatest beverage mankind ever thought of ;-)
> 
> (Originally posted on various online archives in November-December 2003. Retro-posted to AO3 in March 2020.)

Ode à la bière

Part one: La Valse à mille temps

~ Ça sent la bière de Londres à [Dublin] ~

[London]

“Thanks, mate.”

He returns to their booth with the four beers (two Black Cat Mild and a Buzz for the other Brits and himself; and a Spitfire for the Scot cos, well, they didn’t have that Younger’s Tartan beer Billy had asked for), eager faces awaiting him. Or are they waiting for their drinks? He doesn’t really care. Life’s beautiful, he hasn’t been on a movie set for weeks. He’s relaxed, smiling and willing to have fun with his mates all night at the public house.

He sits, distributes the beers, they cheer and drink a little.

Then Dom raises his bottle. He looks around the booth and makes sure he has everyone’s attention.

“To Orlando, the luckiest bastard I’ve ever met. Wishin’ you’ll meet the one who’ll make your heart beat faster. . . You deserve it.” Said with a wink and a trademark Dommie lopsided smile.

“To Orlando!” is everyone’s answer and if Orli blushes a bit, Dom, Billy and Bean only smile warmly. Their friend has been through so much shit so far that he deserves the best.

Orlando rises, laughing, a crimson shade colouring his cheeks. He’s… embarrassed. “‘kay, you lovely morons, you win. I’m about to cry. So move your arses over here so I can hug y’all.”

And he grins widely because otherwise he would cry.

They close in on him, huge smiles on their faces, slapping one another’s shoulders.

[Dublin]

The group of men in the booth at the very bottom of the dark and smoky pub is definitely drunk. Not the wild-and-dangerous kind of drunk, though. The happy we-haven’t-seen-one-another-in-years-and-we-don’t-have-a-fucking-care-in-the-world kind of drunk.

Colin Farrell is finally back home, a stressful shooting behind him, and he intends on enjoying his stay in Dublin as much as possible. His mates welcomed him back as though they hadn’t seen him in years. Apparently, they missed their chain-smoking, always drinking, fucking everything, Hollywood’s law-breaking friend.

From the outside, the tavern bursts with roaring laughter every two minutes and there’s a warm and orange light that comes out of the large muddy window glasses. Back inside, there’s a warm fire in the hearth place that stands in the middle of the tavern. It gives the little pub its cachet.

Many empty pitchers are on the table in the said booth at the back of the tavern, sharing the available space with some others filled with Guinness. Which are emptying rapidly, too.

“To Colin: the only bloody Irish to keep acting like one fucking Irish in Hollywood and becomin’ famous cos of that. Cheers, mate!” More beers are gulped own; more shouts, applauds, cat calls, whistles and a “You’re a god, Cols!” are heard. Colin Farrell is, indeed, very happy.

~ Ça sent la bière, Dieu qu’on est bien ~

He’s laying on the couch, watching ‘Top of the Pops’ when he hears the knock on the front door.

He puts his Shropshire Lad on the small table, mutes the television and slowly makes his way to the door. Takes the time to check who’s on the other side by the peephole. A smile illuminates his face when he recognises the person and he opens the door.

“Hello, Orli.”

“Colin! C’mon, mate, come in.”

A pair of strong arms embraces him and squeezes tight. Been a while since he’s last seen the Irishman.

“Orlando. It’s fucking good to see you too. . . I’d been told that you were still in London for a couple of days so I thought I’d bring my bloody arse over here and say ‘hello’. . . ” The whole speech is spoken in Orlando’s curly head, but the Brit doesn’t mind. He’s missed his mate.

The muscular arms release him and cross on a broad chest. There’s a wicked smile on Colin’s face. “Will you let me in? I’m freezing my arse off and I’m sure as hell you don’t pay your electricity bill to warm up the outside world.”

“Bugger off and come warm my couch instead, you git. Want a beer?” As he speaks, he makes his way to the kitchen ‘cause he already knows the answer to such a rhetorical question and he only wants to listen to Colin’s offended answer, as a matter of fact.

The question is barely out in the air when an answer is shouted from the living room. “After all this fucking time, you still need to bloody ask me? I’m disappointed, mate, really. Thought you’d know me better!” A fake pout forms on his face, though Orlando won’t see it. Colin Farrell doesn’t pout in front of anyone. Only behind their backs. Fake pouts or not.

Orlando smirks, though there’s no one to see it. “You were waiting for the bloody question, cunt!”

“I know, but you like– Fuck! Orli!? How long have you been so fucking desperate? ‘Top of the Pops’!? What have they done to you, for fuck’s sake?”

As Orlando joins Colin on the couch, a shadow passes on his features but it disappears quickly. He gives Colin an Ironbridge Stout that he knows Colin will like and shrugs.

“No shit. Trust me, Cols, you don’t wanna know.”

Colin’s face sobers up for a second or two, just the time it takes him to twist his beer’s cap off. And changes the subject.

“Cheers, mate. And let’s find something worthy of that giant screen you’ve got. Cos let’s face it, Robbie’s arse ain’t my fucking thing.”

The joke lightens the atmosphere.n1 They spend the afternoon talking, laughing, emptying many bottles of beer; while sitting on the couch and watching insignificant shows on the BBC channel.

Their shoulders touch slightly and it feels good.

~ Ça sent la bière de Londres à Berlin ~

[Berlin]

If Colin Farrell ever thought he’d fall in love twice in his life, he never told anyone. What was love anyway?

The first time it happened, he was about thirteen years old. An appealing brunette with a particular taste. He’d been faithful to the thick stout for over fifteen years now and for the first time in his life, he thought about sharing the love he had for the Guinness with another beer.

A German one.

“How do you say that again?” he shouts to the crew member sitting next to him. Apparently, the five thousands seats have found arses to sit on them tonight because the Mathäser tavern is decidedly full.

“Köstritzer Schwarzbier,” is what the bloke says.

“Constrict Schwarzeneger,” is what Colin hears, or thinks he hears.

Anyway, that beer is to die for. And he’s even found another one he’ll have to try again later. Too many tastes in his mouth already t’night, but at least he remembers the name of that one. Abstrunk.

Savouring the new and remarkable taste in his mouth, he lets his mind linger somewhere North and West, in London. To a certain Brit with brown curls, a lithe body and beautiful, laughing eyes. One of the good mates he’s made over the past few years in the Hollywood business.

He keeps seeing the man as often as he possibly can, which is never enough of course but they are still the ‘hot things’ in both the producers’ and the fans’ eyes around the world. Filming movies after movies. Just like right now.

He is brought back from his reverie by the same guy who’s tried to teach him the name of his new-found love a few minutes ago. He passes a new glass of that Schwarzie beer to Colin.

He downs half of it, savouring the lingering flavour on his taste buds. He smiles and decides to join the conversation that’s taking place at their table.

He’s doing good.

Only thing that’s missing to make this evening perfect is a certain Englishman of his acquaintance. And it hit him how he’d grown fond of Orlando. Their sparse meetings are now cherished by him and he delights in provoking them, surprising Orlando when he isn’t expecting him in the least.

Perhaps he should think about it a little more. ‘What are your motives, Farrell? Why do you keep on seeking this man’s company? What’s so special?’

But he won’t think about it any more tonight, ‘cause there is, again, a beer that is being pulled in front of him and he dives into the incessant chatter all over again.

[London]

Orlando could hardly be happier with his life than he is right now. He’s both filming and at home. He has his house where his friends show up at any hour of the day or night, depending on the breaks, the days off and the general schedules of everyone concerned.

He has a nine month-old bobtail, named Edgar.

It’s both heaven and hell.

All he’d need would be a lovely wife standing in the threshold of the main door at 5:30 pm when he came back from his job and a bunch of kids bouncing, yelling, jumping all over the house when he got in.

Well, thinking about it, now, he didn’t want that either. Question now being, what did he want, then?

“So. . . there was never anything between you and Viggo, right Orli?”

Orlando chokes on his drink and spits a mouthful of beer on the table. Oh, yeah. He knows now. He wants to change the topic of the new conversation.

“What!? Dom, what was that about? You could have warned me at least, you cunt. Look at all I’ve wasted!” He isn’t really furious, but the shock caused by Dom’s question is still playing with his mind.

Dominic now looks a tad confused, if possible. “Well, I mean, back in New Zealand, there was nothing between the two of you, right? We always thought you were an item and that you’d decided to hide it from us.” And he sips his own beer nervously.

Orlando has to admit a rambling Dominic is as cute as can be. “No, Dom. Nothing at all. Why d’you ask it now? I mean, it’s been years!” And Orli is puzzled. Why would Dom think such a thing?

And the smaller man doesn’t seem too happy to have started such a topic either, in the end. “Well, it’s just, the hobbits. . . we thought you two were an item but then Colin showed up and we–” The sound of a bottle of Black Cat Mild crashing on the table is enough to stop Dominic from going on any further.

“Hold on a second! ‘Then Colin showed up’? Dominic Monaghan, what does it mean?” Orlando’s lost now. What the fuck is Colin Farrell doing in this conversation?

And Dominic is actually turning a nice shade of crimson right under his eyes. How interesting.

“Well. I mean. You two are so. . . close. And the light in your eyes when you hear from him. Or when you talk about him. Or even when anything more or less closely related to Ireland is mentioned. . . We though, *I* thought, that you were never even acting like that with Vig so I realised you two weren’t in a relationship, after all.”

He doesn’t want to think about the Colin part of Dom’s speech. Let’s focus on the you-don’t-have-a-relationship-with-Viggo-after-all part. He gets up, cleans the mess on the table, opens the fridge and grabs two other beers, one for him and one for Dom. Two Guinness.

He sits at the table again and looks straight in his friend’s eyes. “Dom. D’you honestly think that, *would* Viggo and I had been a couple, we would have hid it from you guys for so many years? C’mon mate, drink this, ‘Guinness is good for you!’”

Dom smiles but not for the same reason than Orlando. “See, that’s exactly why I found out you didn’t love Viggo. Anything remotely connected with Farrell turns that little light on in your eyes.” And, deliberately, Dominic open his can of stout, empties it in a clean glass he grabs on a shelf and deliberately takes a long, slow swallow of his beer, without breaking eye contact with Orlando.

And Orlando, once more, doesn’t answer this comment. Instead, he asks himself the question again.

What does he want?

“[You should go to him,]” adds Dominic, as though he’d heard his friend speak the question out loud.

Which of course, doesn’t mean a thing as Orlando doesn’t even notice that Dominic spoke in German. Or Swahili for that matter.


	2. Que l'on est bête (Quand on est amoureux)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Thomas Fersen's song Que l'on est bête.

Ode à la bière

Part two: Que l’on est bête (Quand on est amoureux)

~ Ça sent la bière, donne-moi la main! ~

[Dublin]

Home.

How delighted and relaxed Colin feels, it’s incredible. He is back in Dublin, at last. He’d celebrated with his mates already and if he is in a pub again tonight, it isn’t with the purpose of getting drunk. Tonight, all he’s looking for is a quiet and anonymous moment with two or three beers.

So far, it’s a success.

Colin sighs as he notices a shadow, standing next to his table, in the corner of his eyes. It was too good to be true. He waits, hoping that perhaps the man will go.

He doesn’t.

Slowly, deliberately, he takes a long swallow of his Guinness. Reproducing the moves Dom had made last time they’d met at his flat. But Colin doesn’t know that of course.

‘Decidedly,’ Orlando thinks, amused, as Colin doesn’t even look at his *fan*, ‘it’s becoming a habit to emphasise one’s moves and decisions by drinking beer so slowly.’

‘Go away!’ Colin shouts in his head. But before he has a chance to speak his mind out loud, the male voice reaches his ears; it is indistinct in its tone and intonation, but the words are clear enough.

“Mr Farrell, sorry to bother you, really I am, but I’m your biggest fan. . . Could I get an autograph?”

Colin turns his head, ready to let the poor bloke know where he’d sign said autograph tonight, when his eyes finally reach the laughing figure towering him. He blushes an entertaining shade of red and finally mutters.

“Fucking cunt.”

Orlando cannot help bursting into pearls of laughter. When it finally recedes, he actually manages to speak without choking on the air.

“Hey! It’s good to see you too, you bloody wanker!”

And Colin can’t help it, he gets his arse up and pulls the Brit in a bear hug big enough to crack his ribs. Orlando is startled and tenses at first but quickly, a smile relaxes his face and soon he, too, crushes the Irishman between his long limbs.

“Hey. . . missed me?” Orlando’s voice is softer and perhaps underlined with worry.

“Fuck, yeah. I did,” his voice muffled because it is lost in Orlando’s unruly curls.

He pulls back slightly and then suddenly realises the almost impossible situation. “How come you’re here?”

His lost look makes Orlando laugh again, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, I thought it was about time I surprised you, no?” A warm smile and he goes on, “you’ve got no idea how hard it was to find you t’night, mate. I mean, how many dark, smoky pubs are there in Dublin?” He looks frustrated now, recalling the numerous places he got in, checking for a spiky and messed-up dark head showing a tattoo or two sitting in front of a pint of Guinness.

It’s Colin’s turn to chuckle.

“Not enough to content my thirst, Orli, not enough.” He looks at the Brit, an unfamiliar look in his eyes. “We won’t be comfortable talkin’ here. . . You wanna go somewhere else?”

Orlando nods, sees Colin finish his Guinness in record time and follows him outside into the dark, chilly night.

“Where to?”

“My place?”

“Sounds good to me.”

They slowly make their way to Colin’s car.

“So, where did you check in?”

Orlando blushes and thanks the darkness for the cover it provides him.

“In fact, I haven’t even checked anywhere yet. My stuff is at the terminal. Wanted to find you first,” he says. ‘And was hoping perhaps you’d offer the shelter,’ he thinks.

And Colin doesn’t know what kind of answer he should throw at his mate for that comment so, for once, he keeps his mouth shut, unlocks the car door and gets in the driver’s seat. “‘kay so we go get your bags and then off home. You’ll stay with me.”

Before long, they have picked up Orlando’s only item, a loaded travelling bag, and arrive at Colin’s home. Dropping the bag in the passage, Colin drags Orlando into the kitchen and without even asking, he grabs two bottles from the fridge and hands one to the Brit.

It takes a few seconds for Orli to react, but he seems to enjoy himself when he finally speaks his mind.

“Cols!? How did you dare?”

Colin looks up at his friend with question marks in his eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about, Orlando?”

“I mean, I’m utterly shocked, mate! This. . . beer. It ain’t even Irish! What have they done to you, my poor friend?” Squeezing his eyes, he read the label carefully. “Köstritzer Schwarzbier. German!? Darling, you’ll be the death of me!”

A feral smile appears on Colin’s face but Orlando doesn’t care at all. Though, when he realises the Irishman won’t answer his banter, he tastes the beer for the first time, pulls it back on the counter and then goes on.

“Not bad, really, but to toss aside your Guinness in favour of that in your fridge?” Hearing a scowl, he quickly adds, “don’t worry, though. I won’t tell Ms Guinness. But, one day or another, she’ll find out and I won’t be– owww!”

Before he has the time to notice, Colin has seized him, moving Orlando right through the kitchen into the living room, where the Englishman is tackled to the floor.

Getting back to his senses, Orlando tries to free himself from Colin’s grip, but he feels his hands nailing his shoulders down.

“Colin, let me go!”

“No.”

“Cols!”

“You’ll say ‘sorry’ first, cheeky bastard.”

“Never!”

“Orlando. . .” Colin growls as he tries to maintain his grip on the wriggling creature beneath him, “I swear you’ll fucking *beg* for forgiveness before long if you don’t say ‘sorry’ right fucking now.”

Between gritted teeth, Orlando answers. “Over my dead body, Farrell.”

The feral smile is back and Orlando finally realises he’s dead to the world, though a tad too late.

“Your choice, little one.”

And Orlando feels his ribs, his armpits, his belly, his everywhere being touched. And it tickles, for fuck's sake! “COLIN!”

But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he focuses even more on the task at hand, so to say.

“Shite, Cols, stop that, you wuss! It’s just a beer!”

“Are you begging me, Bloom?”

“Wha–? No way, man!”

“Okay, then.”

And he keeps on tickling the Brit under him. Said Brit is now laughing so hard his sides hurt. He also has some slight difficulty breathing, caused of course by the tickling, but also because of the incessant struggle he opposes his friend with.

“D’you beg or not?”

And Colin, Orlando manages to notice, is really enjoying the moment. So he wriggles a little more. “No,” is heard. It’s almost a gasp, as Orlando lost his breath long ago.

But, this time it’s a mistake.

Colin finds some new energy deep within himself and, this time, he doesn’t stop to ask Orlando if he begs or not. He will tickle until he hears Orli beg, he decides.

Orlando is panting heavily now and the spasms still shaking his body are no more witnesses of his need to free himself; they are the tired reaction of his body to the never-ending tickling. He doesn’t even have the energy left to laugh anymore.

At last, he decides to give in. He’s had more than his share of being tortured. “Stop! Pleeeeaaaaase, Colin. . . Stop. I’msorryIdidn’tmeanit. Really.”

He’s limp, now, all his energy left is spent making big puppy eyes.

“Please?”

And as quickly as he’s done begging, Colin stops and falls heavily on top of his friend.

A groan escapes Orli’s lips as he’s sandwiched between a heavy Irishman and a carpeted but still very uncomfortable floor.

“Man, you’ve gained some weight or what!?”

“Shut up, arsehole. I won’t let you drink my beer anymore.”

Luckily enough, the threat is balanced by Colin’s mischievous smile and eyes. With a wicked grin, Orlando gives the answer that will change everything. “Oh. But I know of a way to have a few beers with you anyway, Cols.”

The answer is unexpected to say the least. Uncertainty fills Colin’s eyes and he slowly, carefully, adds, “And what would that be, Orlando?”

‘It’s now or never,’ the Brit thinks. So, lifting his head from the floor, he presses his lips lightly against those of his friend and returns to his initial position, the wicked smile still on his face.

“Just like that, Colin. You are intoxicated with alcohol, since being a tween. . . You taste of beer 24/7. Part of your DNA, you know.”

Grunt. “Cunt.”

“Well, my, thank you Colin. Coming from you, it’s a praise, right?”

Pushing himself with his arms so his upper body is slightly detached from Orlando, Colin looks intensely in Orlando’s eyes, seemingly searching for something specific. “I maintain what I said. If you don’t just shut the fuck up, no more beer for you. Not even if I’d know where to find Black Cat Mild in Eire. Which you don’t.” He winks at the younger man, his voice not as solid as it could be, and, honestly, Colin doesn’t really care right now. And Orlando doesn’t either.

“Colin, sweetheart. You know how unfair that statement is. I’ve never been able to keep it shut and never will.”

Colin grins with– what. . . relief?, again, as though there’s a heavy weight off his shoulders. “My fucking point, exactly. Thanks for reminding me.”

Faking a shocked and hurt expression, he cries, “Colin! An Irishman should know better! Being around you and not drink beer? No. . . I can’t. I must have some”

And so, he closes the space between their mouths once more.

TBC and finished with ‘Décadence’


	3. Décadence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a nod to Jean Leloup's song Décadence.  
Also, I stole a line from Moulin rouge. Spank me.

Ode à la bière

Part three: Décadence

~ Ça sent la bière, donne-moi la main! ~ [Suite et fin]

Colin truly tastes of beer, no matter how much a jest the previous discourse was. The lips of the Irishman are warm and moist, he has just licked them. There’s a faint taste of the Guinness he’s had earlier at the pub.

At first, Orlando doesn’t move. He is not yet sure of Colin’s reaction. From the impulsive man, Orli has to expect everything and anything. So he stays there, lips on Colin’s, passive under his powerful body. Eyes closed. It is now up to Colin to decide what to do next.

It takes perhaps a minute before something happens.

Orlando suddenly feels the body covering him tensing, shivering and, at last, relaxing. He does not seek Colin’s eyes, not yet. And then he feels it: the lips lock with his, at last, and Colin presses against Orli, who lays flat on the floor again. It’s only when he feels a slick tongue licking his mouth that he finally answers Colin’s teasing with his own barely contained passion.

His own tongue reaches his friend’s, shyly at first, boldly soon after, in said friend’s mouth.

The kiss deepens, there is a fight for dominance in Colin’s mouth: two tongues battle with fierce energy to get the upper hand of the contest. They twirl and they plunge and grunt together. Breathing is hard. Soon enough, though, it’s not a question of dominance anymore.

Grunts turn to moans.

Twirling changes to licking.

Hard plunging to light teasing.

Hard breathing becomes heavy panting.

There are no sounds in the house except for those coming out of the two men’s throats.

Sooner than later, though, the need for air forces them to break the contact. They have not touched during all this time; no grabbing, no clutching, no rummaging. Yet. They have not made eye contact either.

Orlando has a hard time catching his breath, his body’s still crushed under the dead weight that is Colin Farrell right now. Colin, whose head rests on Orlando’s chest. His eyes are shut tight and his breathing slowly returns to a normal pace. Just like his heart.

At last, Colin notices the lack of comfort Orlando seems to be suffering from. Quietly, he rises to his hands and knees, then gets up. Without meeting Orlando’s eyes, he reaches for the Brit’s hand, grabs it, hauls him to his feet and leads him to the bedroom.

But Orlando, just like he’d told Colin, can’t keep his mouth shut for long.

“You taste. . . nice.”

Pause.

“I wonder what you’d taste like with. . . British liquor on your lips.”

At last, as they stand next to the queen bed, Colin looks him in the eyes. Both sets of eyes are black with desire. And it’s a shock for both men, as they feel the electricity pass between them.

Stormy.

Hot.

Untamed.

Challenging.

A challenge. Of course, they are up to it. Neither men have ever lived a challenge down and they won’t begin today. They smile at each other. Passion has ignited their bodies.

“And tell me, Orlando, would you like to find out, t’night?”

A chuckle escapes the Brit’s throat. “Why not? If you volunteer so nicely I could–” but Orli doesn’t have the time to finish his sentence. Colin, swift as a cat, kisses him again and, this time, hands are involved.

They run over bodies.

They caress.

They undress.

Jumpers, shoes, socks. Shirts, trousers, boxers. Orlando’s jewellery.

Chest to chest, finally feeling the other’s skin on their own. They are burning hot and when at last their mouths part, it’s only to explore new territories. New skin. It’s salty, sometimes hairy. It’s tattooed, sometimes rough. And while their mouths are busy getting acquainted with their new friends, the two men moan, sigh, swear.

Orlando feels a hunger filling him. He wants to taste. Taste Colin. All of Colin. He wants to taste himself on Colin, too. And his greedy, plush mouth wants so much more than it’s already getting.

So, Orlando complies to its demand.

He pins Colin to the mattress much the same way the Irishman did to him in the living room earlier. Surprisingly enough, Colin doesn’t even protest. Instead, he moans helplessly, goes limp and lets Orlando have some fun with his body.

His mouth begins its journey on Colin’s stubbly jaw. It’s as though Orli is licking sandpaper. Tasty sandpaper, of course. Then it goes south, down the column of Colin’s thick, sweaty neck, only to kiss its way to the right collar bone. A few flicks of tongue here to lap the salty sweat that gathered in the hollow crook of the neck.

The tongue now follows a path that leads it to one very hard, very sexy nipple. Lavishing it until Colin is moaning again, Orlando, who doesn’t want to deal with a jealous nipple #2, pinches the free bud softly, scrapping what’s left of his nails on it and then continues his journey.

Orlando’s head follows the trail of coarse hair on Colin’s flat stomach, makes halt at the oh-so-tempting bellybutton and kisses it open-mouthed before thrusting his tongue into it the way he would thrust his cock in Colin’s tight arse if he had the opportunity. Colin must feel it, ‘cause, well, his hips propel upward, seeking more contact, pleading, begging, to be touched some more, reminding Orlando that he has not yet reached the place where Colin wants him.

Smiling at the other man’s impatience, Orlando takes the time to lick the thin line of hair that goes down to his crotch.

“For fuck’s sake, Orli, just blow me already,” he moans. Orlando chuckles, but finally obliges Colin’s demand. And takes the jutting shaft’s head between his lips, tentatively tasting it.

A groan of pure agony reaches his ears but he doesn’t pay attention. He wants to focus on the task at hand. Taking the base of Colin’s cock in his hand, he licks all its length copiously, draining the pre-come from the slit, gently nibbling on it with his teeth, delicately scraping the tender skin.

Satisfied by the reaction he gets from his friend, Orlando decides to finally go with the final blow.

Colin has never known so much pleasure over such a banal thing as a blowjob before, but *this* is incredible and damn it, he is getting close. As nicely as he can under the circumstances, he puts his hands in Orli’s hair and holds onto it. He needs to grip something.

Orlando takes as much as he can of the large shaft in his mouth. He takes too much at first and almost gags, but, retreating slightly, he’s able to suck on it more comfortably. He feels his own cock twitching and leaking on the sheets under him, but he doesn’t want to think about it right now. What he wants to focus on is to pleasure Colin as though his life depended on it. Orlando chuckles around Colin. His life might indeed be threatened if he does not finish his [blow] job properly.

The final blow. Orli’s chuckles reverberate through Colin’s cock and it awakes something deep in his core. Colin is shuddering, bucking his hips frantically in the Brit’s mouth, who tries to pin Colin on the bed to avoid gagging on him. In a way or another, Colin finally comes, with a violent shout.

“ORLI SHIT!”

And as quickly as he came, Colin is limp on the bed. Orlando, on the other hand, still struggles with his throat to swallow all of Colin’s juices. It’s bittersweet and a tad salty and after a few seconds, Orli decides he likes the new taste. Colin’s taste.

If Orlando’s lack of experience was balanced by his patience, his dedication and his care for details, then Colin’s lack of experience is balanced by his eagerness, his impetuosity and the energy he focuses on the task.

As soon as he is finally able to use his brain relatively correctly again, Colin moves from his place lying next to Orlando to attacking his still stiff, dark cock. From the slit oozes an impressive quantity of pre-come. Colin eagerly licks, then moves his tongue up and down Orlando’s length until Orlando is reduced to a wriggling mass on the mattress.

And Colin attacks, at last. He doesn’t want foreplay, Orlando’s been at foreplay for many, too long, minutes already. So he engulfs the shaft in his mouth, pumping on it with all his might, sometimes twirling his tongue around the head, others letting it follow the vein that hides under the cock.

When Colin starts to swallow around his shaft, Orlando is pretty convinced he’ll faint. His hands are on the Irishman’s shoulders and he grips them tightly. But Colin wants so much more than just an Orlando Bloom clutching at his shoulders. He wants the other man moaning, groaning, growling, shouting.

So he keeps on swallowing around it, until, at last, his gag reflex gives in and he finds himself with Orlando’s dick stuck down his throat. The sensation, mixed with the state of arousal previously achieved, undo him.

Trembling, he empties himself in Colin’s mouth, who cleans him properly before falling next to him on the bed. And Orlando bends, only to kiss Colin thoroughly, delving his tongue deep to retrieve all traces of his passage.

The kiss is returned, perhaps with less ardour than the previous ones, but with more tenderness and caring than there’s ever been. Without breaking the contact of their mouths, they get up from the bed and open the linens.

Orlando, though, is in need of air; breaking the kiss long enough to send Colin a thousand watt smile. Sitting on the opposite side of the bed, he holds out his hand to Colin who, after a small hesitation, grabs it and climbs into the bed and covers both of them with the sheets.

Sighs.

“So?”

“Hmmm. . . best I ever tasted.”

“Bastard.”

Indeed, Colin tastes good with British juice on his lips.

Exhausted, they both fall into a peaceful slumber, still holding hands.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

If Colin Farrell ever thought he’d fall in love three times in his life, he’d never told anyone. What’s love anyway?

Let’s see. Love is a many splendoured thing. Love lifts us up where we belong. All we need is love.

The first time it happened, he was about thirteen years old. An appealing brunette with a particular taste. He’d been faithful to the thick stout for over fifteen years straight and only a few weeks ago, he had thought it all over, ready to share the love he had for the sweet Guinness with another beer.

A German one.

The third time it happened, he was even more shook-up. Think about it: Colin Farrell was ready to put both loves of his life on the shelf [so to speak] to clear up all available space for a particular something. Or should I say someone?

A British someone. Do I need name him?

Of course, it was the beer’s fault in the first place and he will never forget that fact. But, just to make sure, he is always careful to replenish the stock of Köstritzer Schwarzbier when there are about ten of them left in the house. And for the sake of his boyfriend, there are also a lot of English beers sharing the space in his refrigerator, with his German and Irish nectars.

He *truly* is in love.

And believe me when I say there was none more surprised than the man himself.

How does this story end, you wonder?

The story ends in Eire, more specifically in the suburbs of Drogheda, about thirty miles North of Dublin. There is a little house, there. Almost a cottage. Nothing fancy. Two stories, a fence to keep Edgar from running away, a few trees about the house and a hedge around their propriety to pry off unwelcome eyes.

Of course they have pieds-a-terre in some strategic cities: Dublin, London, Los Angeles, but those are for work and business. In Drogheda, they are left in peace; their need for privacy respected.

And every time they are in town (which is now more often than not), they will walk to one of the numerous and comfortable pubs, have a few pints, pay some rounds to the patrons, and will go back home, hand in hand, knowing smiles on their faces.

Because, well, the beer has everything to do with it. And they shall remember.

~*~ _finis_ ~*~


End file.
